Chapter 37: Each with His Own Motives
When the four Primarchs boarded the Conqueror, they found Mortarion waiting. The Death Guard Primarch stood apart from his brothers, his pale face giving him the appearance of a ghost more than a man. His hollow eyes held a suffering that disturbed even other Primarchs.
His Barbarus-forged armor included the breathing apparatus he needed to survive, filling the corridor with a foul chemical stench.
"Ugh—" Francis tried not to gag as the smell assaulted his enhanced senses.
"What's troubling you, Little Fufu?"
Fulgrim moved closer, his purple and gold armor gleaming under the ship's lights. Then the odor struck him and he recoiled.
Francis backed away, his nerves firing warning signals. "Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?"
The nickname filled him with unease. Why must one superhuman torment another like this?
Francis retreated, but Fulgrim followed. In the narrow corridor, there was nowhere to go.
"Caught you, little one." The Phoenician seized Francis's collar and traced one finger along his throat.
Francis's pulse hammered. This was how Ferrus had died—Fulgrim's blade sliding through armor and flesh.
"Warmaster, help me!" Francis's plea carried genuine terror. He understood Fulgrim's capacity for fraternal violence all too well.
The Emperor's Children Primarch had already shown his willingness to murder his own blood.
"Enough, Fulgrim." Horus's command carried absolute authority. "We have serious matters to discuss. Stop this display."
The four Primarchs entered the World Eaters' quarters to discover chaos. Ten separate factions fought each other, the chamber echoing with clashing armor and roaring chainswords.
"What's this disgrace? Have you fed your honor to scavengers?"
"Big words! If you want violence, direct it against xenos filth and the False Emperor!"
"Otherwise, face me in combat! Whoever wins gets to claim the title of Warmaster!"
With that declaration, Horus leapt into the chamber's center. His impact shook the deck plating throughout the compartment.
Every World Eater fixed him with hungry stares, but the Warmaster merely gestured dismissively.
"Come on then! You want elevation so badly? Prove your worth against me!"
He spread his arms wide.
"What's holding you back now? Are you suddenly afraid?"
The World Eaters seethed with barely contained rage, but none dared voice their fury openly. The crowd stirred restlessly as bloodlust demanded satisfaction.
Finally, one warrior's anger overwhelmed his tactical wisdom.
"I'll present the Warmaster's skull to—"
Horus's thunder hammer ended both the challenge and the challenger. The weapon's discharge sent the warrior's shattered form across the chamber, armor fragments scattering like deadly rain.
The metallic tang of spilled blood filled the air and triggered the berserkers' conditioning. Several more charged forward as the Nails consumed their reason.
"Kill!"
"KILL! KILL!"
They swung their chainswords in coordinated assault, but Horus's weapon sent each attacker flying before they could voice their death cries.
The survivors watched their brothers die, then resumed proper formation. Their brief rebellion had been crushed by superior violence.
Horus glanced toward Francis. His brother offered a subtle gesture of approval.
For the first time in days, the Warmaster felt his constant headache subside. Perhaps there was still hope for this brotherhood of monsters.
Led by chastened World Eaters, the Primarchs proceeded to the inner sanctum where Khârn maintained his vigil outside Angron's quarters. The veteran sergeant shook his head with weary resignation.
"The Primarch won't see anyone. He wants to be alone."
His baleful glare fixed upon Francis with unmistakable accusation, as though the Soul Drinkers' lord bore sole responsibility for Angron's condition.
"Don't blame me," Francis replied defensively. "He insisted on wearing the device and wouldn't let me remove it. I was trying to help."
The words rang hollow even to his own ears. Good intentions paved the road to damnation—he'd learned that lesson well.
Hearing this exchange, Fulgrim's eyes blazed with renewed interest.
"Perhaps I should remove that device from his skull?"
A sudden inspiration struck Francis. Though he struggled to suppress inappropriate mirth, he maintained serious composure.
"That's not necessary."
He gestured toward the sealed chamber.
"When the loyalists arrive, just pull out the control rod and let him loose on their ranks. Simple, efficient, convenient. Doesn't need any complex coordination."
Francis's casual suggestion struck the assembled World Eaters like physical blows. They erupted in unified outrage.
"How dare you reduce our Primarch to a mere weapon! To use him with such callous disregard!"
"Warmaster, surely you can't allow such treatment!"
But Horus found merit in the terminology. 'Loyalists' proved an excellent designation for those who would oppose his righteous rebellion against the False Emperor.
Regarding Angron's deployment, the tactical advantages were undeniable. Though expressing such views openly might damage World Eaters' morale. As he contemplated diplomatic phrasing...
Khârn spoke, his eyes blood-rimmed, his voice grinding with determination.
"You've got a point. Maybe only through something this extreme can our Primarch find himself again. This is just temporary madness. He'll come back to us."
Such was his desperate hope—that Angron would find peace in violence. He always had.
"Khârn! You can't—"
"How could you—"
The World Eaters stared in shocked betrayal, but Khârn's martial prowess silenced their protests. Currently, he commanded the Legion in Angron's absence. His word carried ultimate authority.
Even if that word damned them all.
During their return journey, Horus posed a strategic question.
"Francis, where would you establish our position to await the loyalists' arrival?"
Francis had been dreading this moment. The trap had to be perfect, and the location had to seem like Horus's own idea.
"Isstvan V presents optimal advantages," he replied with studied casualness. "The climate's temperate, the location's tactically convenient, and the terrain works for large-scale operations."
Horus clapped his brother's shoulder with genuine surprise and pleasure.
"I hadn't suspected your potential for supreme command! Your recommendation aligns perfectly with my own strategic assessment!"
Francis felt heat rise in his cheeks. For one dangerous moment, he genuinely considered joining Horus's cause. The Warmaster's approval carried weight—it always had, even when they were children discovering their power.
But contemplation of the Emperor's current power restored his tactical clarity: the Ten Thousand Custodians, the loyal Legions still gathering, and the trap waiting to be sprung.
Instead, Francis found himself wondering what their Father currently pursued.
The Imperial Palace, Terra
"My Emperor, don't these specifications seem excessive? Are so many concealed access points truly necessary?"
The Tech-Priest's question carried genuine concern. The Webway project consumed resources on an unimaginable scale.
"Safety demands such precautions when dealing with the Eldar Webway," the Emperor replied with characteristic practicality.
The Tech-Priest immediately recognized the wisdom in this approach. The Master of Mankind had descended from the Golden Throne, and construction of humanity's Webway had accelerated dramatically.
The work proved exhausting. The Emperor operated like a tireless machine, continuously modifying the Webway architecture without pause or rest.
A Custodian's voice interrupted from behind them.
"My Emperor, you require rest. Far too long have you labored without respite."
The Emperor turned toward His personally crafted guardian. One Custodian bore a basin of heated water while a Silent Sister held prepared towels.
"Explain this behavior. Who gave these instructions?"
The Emperor's tone carried unmistakable displeasure. Both servants immediately prostrated themselves.
"Lord Francis provided these instructions, my Emperor. He claimed such ministrations benefit physical health and alleviate fatigue. Observing your extended labors, we thought—"
Magnus maintained his position upon the Golden Throne, prepared to speak, but the Emperor's thunderous expression silenced all commentary.
Within the Master of Mankind's consciousness, volcanic fury threatened eruption. Francis. Always Francis. Even in rebellion, the boy sought to manage His daily routine.
"Where is he now? Summon him immediately!"
Before the Custodian could respond, the Emperor sensed familiar presences. Leman Russ and Rogal Dorn requested an urgent audience.
The moment He granted permission, the Wolf King burst into the chamber.
"Father, Horus has committed treason!"
The words hung in the air like a death knell.
"We have irrefutable evidence. He destroyed Isstvan III and attempted to murder loyal warriors of the Imperium!"
Rogal Dorn's architectural mind immediately processed the implications: strategic positions, defensive capabilities, and the probable course of the rebellion.
"Francis is currently maintaining deep cover among the traitors! But I fear he can't hold for much longer!"
Magnus immediately interjected with obvious satisfaction.
"Father, I warned you of Horus's rebellion, yet you doubted my counsel."
The Emperor's golden eyes blazed with fury and anguish. His most beloved son had fallen to Chaos while His newest son walked among traitors, risking damnation with every breath.
"Francis must survive!"
[End of Chapter]
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